James Barrington - Overkill

When Richter’s breathing had slowed to normal, and he felt a bit more of a going concern, he got up and listened at the door. There was no sound outside, so he turned the key slowly in the lock and eased the door open, taking care to use the handkerchief again. The hall was quiet and empty, with the single light still burning. Richter removed the key and locked the door from the hall side, then wiped the key thoroughly and dropped it into a tank of tropical fish that stood beside one wall. Richter knew that immersion in water would certainly not help define any partial prints that he might have left on it.

He walked to the foot of the stairs and listened carefully – there was no sound from above. He hadn’t expected any, but Richter had only lived as long as he had by never assuming anything and never trusting anyone. He could, he realized, have just walked through the front door and got away on the Honda, but he had come for a talk with Orlov, and he intended to have a talk with Orlov.

He started up the stairs, keeping to the side nearest the wall, where any creaks from the treads would be minimized. At the half landing he paused to gather breath and listened again. Still nothing. He continued to the top, and walked slowly over to the door of Orlov’s room.

Pressing his ear close, Richter could hear the soft sound of voices, so he assumed that Orlov and his bodyguard were in conference. Richter slid the pistol into his pocket, wiped the sweat from his palms on a clean handkerchief, took the Glock out again, took a deep breath and opened the door.

Orlov was sitting at his desk, the bodyguard standing to his right and a little behind him. They seemed to be studying something on a piece of paper on the desk, and neither turned round, no doubt because they were only expecting Yuri.

Only a fool gives an enemy an even break, so Richter raised the Glock, took careful aim, and shot the bodyguard in the back. The Russian pitched forward and sideways, smashing into the corner of the desk before sliding sideways to the floor. Richter aimed again and shot him carefully in the stomach, twice, then once in the head.

Then he turned his attention to Orlov who sat, frozen, an expression of stark terror on his face, like some tableau in a waxworks. ‘Hullo again, Vladimir,’ Richter said, his words slurring through his battered lips. ‘I’m not really from British Gas. I’m an ornithologist and I’m collecting new specimens. You’re my little Russian canary, and you’re going to sing, sing, sing.’

Saturday

Ickenham, Middlesex

‘Just what the hell happened to you?’

Richter tried a grin that turned into little more than a twitch of his facial muscles, and looked across the room into the worried face of David Bentley, Lieutenant Commander Royal Navy, and the current Naval Liaison Officer at Royal Air Force Uxbridge. He and Richter had gone through the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth together, and had kept in touch – albeit somewhat sporadically – ever since. They were less than friends, but more than acquaintances, and Richter knew that he could rely on Bentley to help, and not to ask too many questions.

He had had practically no options anyway. Simpson’s apartment was possibly being watched by then, and Richter knew that his own apartment building had been under surveillance for some time. And after what he’d done to Orlov, the Russian dogs would be out in force. Bentley’s RAF married quarter had been the only place he could think of running to when he’d staggered away from the house in Orpington.

‘I can’t tell you, David,’ Richter said, his words slurred and indistinct. ‘It’s dangerous enough for me – I can’t expose you to the same risks I get paid to take.’

Bentley looked at Richter’s battered tragedy of a face. ‘Whatever they’re paying you, Paul, it’s not enough.’

Richter lifted the mug of coffee cautiously to his lips and took an exploratory sip. The scalding liquid played hell with the cuts and abrasions he could feel inside his mouth, but it was welcome for all that.

‘OK,’ Bentley said. ‘I’ll go and put your motorcycle in the garage, then we’ll see what we can do to make you a bit more comfortable.’

Richter nodded his thanks, and eased back in the chair, wincing as eddies of pain shot through his torso. The journey through London and out to Ickenham had been a slow and painful nightmare. The beating he’d received had left him weak and dizzy and aching in every joint, and twice he’d had to stop the Honda and wait for his head to clear.

He’d stopped for a few minutes in Clapham and rung Bentley from a public telephone box, just in case the Russians had somehow managed to tap into the GSM mobile system and could trace the numbers he called. He’d hung on for better than twenty rings before Bentley had picked up the receiver, and he’d told him almost nothing, just asked him to watch out for his arrival and to let him into the house without delay. Bentley, typically, hadn’t commented, just said that he would, and had rung off.

The side door of the house closed. Richter heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, and then Bentley was back in the living room. ‘Can you stand?’ he asked, and Richter nodded.

With Bentley’s help, Richter slowly removed the haversack, then eased his arms out of the leather jacket. Bentley looked quizzically at the Smith and Wesson in Richter’s shoulder holster. The Mauser HSc, which Richter had liberated from Yuri’s deceased colleague before leaving Orlov’s house, was stashed in the haversack. Richter had reduced the Glock 17 that he had used on Orlov and the bodyguard to its component parts and dumped them in several widely spaced rubbish bins between Orpington and Ickenham.

‘Is that loaded?’ Bentley asked, gesturing at the Smith. Richter nodded, pulled the pistol out of the holster and shook the shells into his palm. Bentley took them from him, and put the pistol, holster and bullets on the sideboard.

Getting the sweater off Richter’s battered body proved much more difficult than the jacket, and eventually Bentley went into the kitchen and returned with a large pair of scissors, which he used to slit up the back of the sweater. The shirt was, by comparison, easy.

‘You’re a mess,’ Bentley said shortly, looking at Yuri’s handiwork. Most of Richter’s chest and stomach was a montage of blue and vivid purple bruises. ‘I’m surprised you managed to ride that bloody motorbike of yours all the way here.’

‘I nearly didn’t,’ Richter said, and sat down again.

Bentley vanished into the kitchen for a few minutes and came back with another mug of coffee, a plastic bowl of warm water, and a selection of soft cotton cloths. He looked down at Richter and shook his head. ‘I’m no medical man,’ he said, ‘but I really think you need to see a doctor. You could have broken ribs, a cracked sternum or anything under that lot.’

‘No,’ Richter said. ‘I just need a place to rest and hide for a while, that’s all.’

‘OK. Now,’ Bentley went on, ‘this is probably going to hurt, but I’d be obliged if you didn’t scream, because Kate’s still asleep upstairs, and you really don’t want to wake her. If she doesn’t get her full eight hours she’s not a lot of fun to be around.’

‘I’ll bite on a bullet,’ Richter said, trying another smile, and leaned slowly backwards as Bentley began to gently bathe his cuts.

It didn’t hurt as much as Richter had feared, but the water in the plastic bowl quickly turned a deep red, and he could see the concern on Bentley’s face as fresh blood flowed from the wounds. ‘I won’t say it again, but you know what I think,’ he said, getting up and carrying the bowl into the kitchen. He came back moments later with a first-aid kit, spread antiseptic cream on the wounds on Richter’s face and covered them with soft pads which he secured with a bandage wound round his head. ‘I can’t do much about your chest and stomach,’ he said. ‘I guess you’ll just have to sleep lying on your back for a while.’