James Barrington - Overkill

He had left a brief note for his manservant on the dining table, confirming that he would be away, staying with friends in St Petersburg, for the next week or so, and adding that he would telephone when he knew the date of his return. The note was virtually a duplicate of the one on his secretary’s desk at the Ministry, except that his secretary had also been given his contact address in St Petersburg. It was all perfectly normal – a part of the routine that Trushenko had carefully established over the previous seven months.

There was a brief knock at the door. Trushenko opened the door and handed his suitcase to his chauffeur, then picked up his briefcase, locked the apartment door and followed him into the elevator.

The drive to the station took only a few minutes in the light early-morning traffic, and Trushenko arrived in good time for the express to St Petersburg. The chauffeur took the suitcase out of the boot of the limousine and accompanied Trushenko into the station. Trushenko handed over the ticket – purchased for him by his secretary – to the railway official, who removed the top copy and handed the rest back. He took the suitcase from his chauffeur, walked on to the platform, and climbed on to the train without a backward glance.

Orpington, Kent

Yuri and the anonymous thug released Richter’s arms, and he slumped forward out of the chair on to the floor. His one hope was to convince everyone, and especially Yuri, that he was in no state to resist anything. That might, just might, make them a little careless.

They picked him up and Yuri twisted Richter’s left arm up and behind his back. The second man made to help him, but Yuri shrugged him away with an impatient gesture. ‘He’s mine,’ he growled, in heavily accented Russian. ‘I do not need your help.’

Richter believed him. So did Orlov. ‘Do as he says. Just open the door for them.’

Yuri dragged Richter out of the room and to the top of the stairs. Richter wondered briefly how he was supposed to get down them. He found out. Yuri simply gave him a hefty shove. Richter stumbled off balance, grabbed for the banister and missed, then tumbled. He had enough presence of mind to tuck his head well in as he fell, and he tried as far as possible to roll rather than bounce, but by the time he reached the half landing his body felt as if it had gone over the Niagara Falls in a barrel.

Richter moved cautiously, but nothing seemed to be broken. Yet. He had got to his knees by the time Yuri reached him. The Russian kicked out, his foot catching Richter in the stomach, and he crashed and rolled his way to the bottom of the stairs. From the throbbing agony in his lower abdomen, Richter decided that if Yuri ever tired of being a bodyguard, there was definitely an opening for him on the football field. Richter was quicker this time, and he was on his feet before Yuri reached him, but still bent almost double clutching his stomach.

Yuri grabbed Richter’s arm and jerked him upright, and Richter moaned softly. It wasn’t hard to do. It would have been hard not to. Yuri punched him in the stomach a couple of times for good measure, and gave him another shove. Richter reeled across the hallway and fetched up against a panelled door. Yuri grabbed him, twisted him round and smashed him face-first into the panels, then turned the handle and pushed him into the room.

Richter stumbled over something and fell to the floor, knocking the back of his head against a table leg as he did so. What made it worse was that the table leg didn’t move. As the lights came on he looked at it and saw why. It was a billiard table, covered in a dust-cloth that reached down almost to the floor. The one thing Richter needed then was a weapon, any weapon, and he suddenly realized that he might have found one.

Richter looked over at Yuri. He had turned round to close the door and was taking off his shoulder holster, the better to enjoy his work. Richter reached his right hand up, under the cloth, to where the corner pocket was, praying that the balls would be in the pockets and not in a box in some cupboard, because if they were in a box he was dead.

His probing fingers found the mesh of the pocket, and then the smooth round hardness of a ball on the rack just below the pocket. Just the one, but one was all he needed. He closed his fingers around it and dropped his arm just as Yuri turned back towards him.

Yuri had the door key in his hand. He smiled at Richter and slid it into his trouser pocket, then walked over towards the table. He stopped about three feet away and looked down. ‘I’m going to enjoy this, English. My brother was a good man, a good Communist. You are going to wish you had never been born. Get up.’

Richter was leaning against the leg of the billiard table, his right arm twisted round behind him, the ball held tight in his fist. He shook his head. ‘Can’t,’ he gasped. ‘Can’t move.’

Yuri snorted with disgust and stepped closer. Richter hoped the Russian wanted him on his feet first, so that he could have the pleasure of knocking him down again. Most thugs preferred that, in Richter’s experience. Yuri reached down and seized the lapels of Richter’s leather jacket in both hands. ‘I told you up, English bastard.’

Yuri was strong, and Richter knew that he was only going to get the one chance. If that failed Yuri would break both his arms and then beat him to a pulp. Yuri began to pull. Richter could feel his weight coming off the floor. He looked at the Russian’s face, judging distance, keeping his right arm and shoulder low. As Richter planted his feet flat on the floor, he moved.

His right arm was still below the level of his knees, and he brought it up, up with every ounce of strength that he possessed, straightening his legs as he did so. Richter’s right fist, holding the heavy ball tightly, swept up between Yuri’s arms and caught him under the chin, hard. The Russian’s head snapped back, and he crashed to the floor.

Moscow

Fifteen minutes before the St Petersburg express was due to leave, Trushenko climbed down from the carriage and hurried back along the platform. At the barrier he explained that he had to make an urgent telephone call and was directed towards the far wall of the station.

Twenty-three minutes after that, Trushenko was in another railway station, sitting in a carriage on a train that was going to an entirely different destination.

Orpington, Kent

Richter didn’t wait. As Yuri tumbled backwards Richter kicked his right foot up into his groin as hard as he could, then went for the head. He wasn’t thinking, by that stage. He was an animal, an animal fighting for its life, and he was going to make no mistakes.

When Richter stopped, Yuri’s head was a red, battered mess, and he didn’t need a stethoscope or a doctor to tell him that the Russian was dead. He had probably been dead after the first blow with the ball that Richter still had clutched in his right hand. A blow like that has a definite tendency to break necks, if it’s delivered hard enough, and Richter couldn’t have delivered it much harder.

Richter staggered, panting, to the nearest chair, and slumped into it. He needed a rest, just for a few minutes. Richter looked at the bloodstained ball in his hand. It was a snooker ball, a red, which seemed somehow appropriate, bearing in mind the political persuasion of the man on the floor. Richter smiled, or thought he did – his face ached so much that it was difficult to tell what the facial muscles were doing – and put the ball into an ashtray.

Then he started thinking again, and picked it up, pulled a handkerchief out of Yuri’s pocket and wiped the ball thoroughly before putting it back into the pocket of the billiard table. Richter pulled the door key out of Yuri’s trouser pocket, still using his handkerchief to avoid leaving prints, and put it in the lock. He took the Russian’s pistol, an Austrian Glock 17 semi-automatic, out of his shoulder rig and without bothering about prints – he would wipe it later – checked it over and made sure that the magazine was full. He found two spare magazines in a pouch attached to the other side of the shoulder holster strapping, so Richter took them as well, though he didn’t think he was going to need them. There was a silencer in Yuri’s jacket pocket. Richter took it and screwed it on to the pistol barrel. With the gun in his hand he felt better, and sat there in the chair for another twenty minutes or so, gathering his strength.